of the house. She wasn’t going to get Craig’s gun and point it at him, either, but she didn’t have to make this easy for him.
In a voice dripping with ice, she said, “If you want to sleep on the couch, go ahead.” As she spoke, she remembered that the bed in the guest room had clean sheets, but she kept that to herself.
“Okay,” he answered, his tone mild. “You go on up and I’ll stay down here.”
The fight knocked out of her for the moment, she turned her back to him and without another word, she walked out of the kitchen.
MACK WATCHED THE RIGID set of Jamie’s shoulders as she exited the room. He was sure she hated having him here, but that wasn’t going to make him back down. He was worried about her, and he was glad she hadn’t put up too much of an argument. Still, she was being as inhospitable as possible. When she had climbed the stairs, he walked into the living room and looked at the couch, which wasn’t exactly going to be comfortable for his six-foot-two frame. She hadn’t even offered him a blanket, but an afghan lay along the upper edge of the backrest. He kicked off his shoes and arranged several small, square pillows behind his head. Then he unfolded the afghan and lay down, trying to adjust the covering so that it would warm both his feet and his shoulders.
Had Jamie taken her clothes off upstairs and gotten back into bed? Or was she lying on top of the covers in her jeans and plaid shirt? Craig’s plaid shirt, actually.
He forced himself to stop thinking about what she was doing up there and focused on earlier in the evening. She’d been genuinely upset when she’d called the office. So what was going on?
Perhaps she really had some inside information on Lynn Vaughn, but didn’t want to admit what she knew, so she’d made up the nightmare story to create an explanation.
He glanced at the stairs, then walked quietly back into the office where he sat down at the computer again. After another furtive glance at the door, he called up the secure database that Light Street used and accessed Jamie’s phone records. As far as he could see, she hadn’t made any calls to Gaptown in the past few weeks. And she hadn’t received any, either.
Again he glanced at the door and listened for sounds of activity upstairs. After long moments of quiet, he opened Jamie’s email and looked at her messages. Once more, he found nothing that had to do with the reason she’d called Light Street.
He breathed out a small sigh, relieved but feeling guilty about snooping.
Still, he’d like to know if she’d been back to Gaptown in the past few weeks.
He wished he could stop thinking and acting like a detective when it came to Jamie. She’d asked him if he thought she was up to something illegal. He didn’t want to believe that, but the alternative didn’t exactly make sense. Although she’d said she’d had a dream in which she watched something bad happen to Lynn Vaughn, she’d never spoken of any psychic experiences before, nor had Craig ever mentioned anything like that about his wife. But would he tell anyone else something that weird?
Mack couldn’t help wondering if Jamie was stressed beyond the breaking point by her husband’s death and then life on her own. Of course, he wasn’t going to say that to her.
Trying to turn off his inconvenient thoughts, he returned to the living room, laid his weapon on the coffee table and lay down. Eyes closed, he courted sleep. It wasn’t that easy with two little pillows under his head and his stocking feet sticking out onto the end table. But he finally dozed off.
In the morning he was startled awake by a crashing noise.
Springing off the sofa and reaching for his weapon, he looked for the source of the sound and saw a light in the kitchen. As he rushed in, gun in hand, he saw Jamie, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, standing in front of the stove, where she was lighting a burner that held a heavy frying pan. Presumably, she’d just slammed the pan onto the burner by way of a cheery good morning gesture, leaving no doubt that she was still pissed at him.
She turned and gave him and the weapon a considering look. There was no need for her to ask how he’d slept because that was all too obvious—he’d tossed around in rumpled clothes most of the night.
He brushed back his hair and ran his tongue over his teeth. “I don’t suppose you have an extra toothbrush?” he asked.
She waited several beats before taking pity on him. “In the medicine cabinet.”
He went upstairs, used the facilities, then washed his face and brushed his teeth. After rubbing his dark stubble, he reopened the medicine cabinet and got out one of the pink disposable razors.
Her shaving cream was on the edge of the tub, and he used that, too, feeling guilty about taking liberties, but he was feeling more human when he came back down.
The smell of eggs, bacon and coffee drew him to the kitchen, where Jamie was moving briskly about, getting down plates. He could tell from her quick movements that she wanted to pitch him out of the house.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“I’ve got it under control.”
He poured himself a mug of coffee, then helped himself to eggs from the pan and bacon from a plate sitting on the stove.
“Toast?” she asked.
“That’s okay.”
“Do you want it or not?” she snapped.
“No, thanks.”
So much for civil conversation.
After she’d sat down across from him and taken a few bites of the eggs, he said, “You still want to come with me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“But I’m going anyway. I think you’re going to need me.”
“What does that mean?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
Half of him wished he hadn’t been on duty last night, and the other half was glad that he had been there when she called, but he couldn’t tell her that or much of anything else.
“Pack an overnight bag,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because it’s a long ride and we might not get back tonight.”
“Fine.” She ate a piece of bacon before asking, “What about you?”
“We’ll stop at my house. I keep a bag packed.”
She nodded, then got up and scraped the rest of her breakfast into the trash. He ate a few more bites, then cleaned off his own plate.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“About what?”
“Upsetting you.”
She made a sound like harrumph and began cleaning the pan where she’d cooked the eggs, her shoulders rigid.
He
